Red and Black
by Rose Riley
Summary: ONESHOT! Nel's thoughts during her transformation, and reflections on Ichigo. Possible spoilers from chapter 245 through 300, approximately. One-sided Nel/Ichigo.


Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach.

This story is merely based on my interpretation of Nel's reflections from chapter 245 through chapter 300. Possible spoiler alert.

Red and Black

Red and black. The two colors followed me everywhere. Red, bloodshed in each fight. Black, the color of death. In a world of combat, how could black not have a role?

When I saw him, my perception of red and black changed. In the form of a child, my two consciences overlapped: the innocent mindset of my child-self, and the full-grown knowledge of my former life, the latter trapped in the back of my mind. My older self could see and feel every moment of my child-formed entrapment, yet could not act or speak. The child-me observed everything from a simple point-of-view.

Red now spotted in my vision; in tuffs of color the image sat above a firm, reassuring face. The face of my savior. His red hair fell messily, in obvious disarray, like flames sparkling against a dark background. When my child-self thought of the color red, we would see his face grinning down at us.

He was dressed in black, the uniform of a Shinigami. Immediately, Espada defense mechanisms sounded in my adult mind. The child-me felt a tinge of my worry, but followed the red-haired man anyway, an unproven trust already formed.

My child-self watched in awe during his moments of bravery, and in adoration as he protected us from foes. We viewed his moments of pain in horror. I was unable to control the desire to protect him; my child-self acted on my internal urge to throw myself into the fray.

The red-haired man protected us again and again, his body tearing, old associations with red reemerging as blood seeped from his wounded face and beaten body, glittering on his tattered uniform. The red could not stain the black, merely making the fabric shiny with the substance.

Yet, although pain was apparent—etched into his face—he stood before us, protecting us from a past enemy; the one who cursed me to live in this powerless body. I could not fathom why he continuously protected us; we were, after all, the enemy. My child-self cried out desperately as our enemy accused us of treachery against Ichigo. She did not understand the truth, as confused as a small child would be when faced with an unbelievable notion. I understood every word Nnoitra spoke about us. It was true I used to be an Espada; but my child-self was oblivious to our deception.

Had my consciousness possessed eyes, they would have widened at Ichigo's words:

"Of course you haven't," he said, grinning down at us. "There's no need for you to trick us!"

Despite our arrancar appearance, he believed my child-self. My metaphorical heart fluttered at his words, a feeling that was new to me. Warmth spread through my child-self and me.

He trusted us.

Our blood went cold when Nnoitra attacked him, physically harming him. How dare he lay a finger on Ichigo! My child-self cried out in fear for our savior.

Nnoitra explained to his confused audience his back-handed attack on me, back when I was the third Espada. Neither me nor my child-self paid attention to his words. We focused on Ichigo, our protector. Blood poured from fresh wounds on his chest. Yet he still stood, ready to defend us.

I wanted Ichigo to flee, to leave us, to escape. But I knew it was against his nature to abandon a companion. As Nnoitra gripped our skull, I noted (with slight flattery) Ichigo's desperation as he screamed for Nnoitra to release us. He lunged, being thrown opposite me as Nnoitra defended himself from Ichigo's attack. My child-self cried out for him, obvious worry coursing through us.

My child-self screamed as Nnoitra went for the kill. No! We could not allow Ichigo to be destroyed! I had to protect him. It was imperative for me to escape this child-bodied imprisonment. In my adult-form, I knew I would be able to protect him. I was Espada number three, after all. Nnoitra was five. I was stronger.

The emotions I longed to surpress bubbled to the surface in my subconscious, warmth flowing through my figurative body. Our shape changed; my child-self disappearing, my legs lengthening, arms growing, chest enlarging.

I could (and would) protect him.

Neliel Tu Oderschvank, the former third Espada, was back.

End


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